Care

What is it that I care about anymore?

Clearly not myself,

but maybe anything else.

I care about the money I'm not making

and I care about the people for whom

a smile I am faking.

I care about explaining away

all the red that seems to drip

and show up on everything.

I care about how to get myself out

of this situation where I'm breathing.

And I promise, I never stop.

Maybe I should be put away

in a white room somewhere.

Maybe I should disappear.

I try every night, but something

keeps me here.

I get angry at it sometimes,

but I know that it might be for a reason.

I just can't find it when everything is

this big of a mess.

If I could draw myself, I would.

But I don't think anyone can spend that

much time putting together the lines

of the broken pieces that make up the

wobbling structure of who I am.

Is this what they forgot to tell me,

about growing up?

That now, you're all alone

with no one to stop you from

the thoughts inside your head.

You're on your own

with no escape.

Unless you make your own.

Author's Note

Just something that's been in my head for a couple of days. Journal entry, I guess. I don't know.